


Insanity is hereditary.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of a fight for succession, some not-so-tired old men get together for a good drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insanity is hereditary.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for KHR Undercover. I wrote for the theme, "Origins", and I actually won, which is pretty cool. o_o The title is taken from a theme found in one of the 31 Days sets!

The tinkling of the Takesushi store bell and shift of cloth against the careless sweep of someone’s hand does not surprise Yamamoto Tsuyoshi, even if he closed up shop early, so early that the last orders were called for by four in the afternoon. It’s 11 PM now, well past sundown and an hour before a new day, and there are footsteps out at the front, moving across the floorboards between the sushi bar and the booths. Two pairs, four feet all in all: one with an almost imperceptible limp, the other a careless cadence as only a wining and dining pleasure machine could have. The voices confirm the observation a moment later.

 

“You sure he won’t mind…?”

 

“He never does.”

 

That comment makes him laugh. _Thunk_ , goes the cleaver, embedding itself into the edge of the table, among a multitude of other scars on the wood. Tsuyoshi washes the stink of fish and fatherhood off of his hands, and towels them dry as he steps out of the kitchen and back into the restaurant.

 

It’s been a long, long time since he’s seen those faces.

 

“Ahahaha. What happened to your arm?”

 

“Italy,” Sawada Iemitsu simply says, with that old twinkle in his eye; the blond grins at Tsuyoshi, looking pretty decent for a guy who might have walked through a firestorm without any gear whatsoever, judging from those injuries. Beside him, Shamal lights up a cigarette, casts an unimpressed look his surroundings.

 

“Ever considered redecorating?”

 

“Don’t think I ever will… Natsuhi loved these colors, y’know.” Tsuyoshi beamed. “Put that thing out or I will cut you.”

 

“Bring out your best sake in the house and I’ll consider it.”

 

“Careful, Shamal,” Iemitsu teased. “He can probably rip you a new one lickety split, even with that daddy gut.”

 

“He could, but I bleed like a nasty motherfucker, y’know? And blood’s sure hard to wash off wood.”

 

Fifteen years, and absolutely nothing has changed.

 

They start, of course, with the little things, the easy things: talk of the weather, talk of their latest exploits, everything that grazed the surface of the years they had spent apart, on their difficult paths, but nothing that went beneath the surface – nothing particularly heavy or difficult. Two hours and a whole new sake bottle later, though, and they end up moving past the small stuff anyway.

 

“I would have wanted to see it, you know. My boy, fighting Xanxus with everything he had.”

 

It’s not that they’re uncomfortable with digging up old ghosts, or, in Iemitsu’s case, talking about the life that Shamal now lives on the fringes of and that Tsuyoshi has completely walked away from _with_ the very parties in question. There just usually isn’t any reason or need for them to mention any of that. Usually. Recent events have proven to be far from ‘usual’ this time around.

 

“Heard your boy did great against Superbi as well, Yamamoto… he even managed to keep the guy alive.”

 

“Of course he did. He learned the best sword style there is, after all!”

 

Tsuyoshi turns away to pour himself another, and Shamal and Iemitsu exchange a telegraphic look, while the other can’t see them. It is short of miraculous, really, the fact that Tsuyoshi’s tagline for the Shigure Souen style has never changed after all that time. After it had failed its master in the worst possible way.

 

Later, Shamal will ask Iemitsu if Tsuyoshi’s still telling his son that same old story about his wife’s death, that harebrained tale about a tragic accident involving walls. They’ll wonder, after they’re heading out of the shop, if Tsuyoshi’s ever going to say what really happened, about his former life with the local gangs, about relationships gone sour and boots and bullets to Natsuhi’s gut and Tsuyoshi’s sword running through his old boss’ forehead.

 

For the moment, though, they are pouring their next round and changing the subject.

 

“What about that pup of yours, doc?” Iemitsu says, turning towards Shamal. “Still barking up the wrong trees?”

 

“He’s never going to stop doing that,” the (crackpot) doctor sighs, rubbing the back of his head. “And he’s _not_ my pup.”

 

“Your son, then.”

 

“That’s worse, you bastard,” Shamal grumbles, as he rummages through his pockets for his pack of Mild Sevens. The scruffy man eventually finds them, thumbs one out and lights up. He only speaks again after he had taken a few, comforting drags. “I’d like to think that if I DID father somebody, he wouldn’t be such a loud-mouthed prick who’s totally gay for his boss.”

 

Iemitsu spits out his drink. Tsuyoshi thumps his back, with all the appropriate sympathetic sounds. Shamal, however, is not sympathetic.

 

“Now don’t you wish you were around your own house more often, blondie?”

 

“MY BOY IS NOT GAY.”

 

“Not _yet_ , anyway. Hayato’s hips are pretty amazing—”

 

Tsuyoshi then spends the next twenty minutes keeping Iemitsu and Shamal from killing each other.

 

Three ex-assassins and a bottle of sake is not a good combination.

 

“Don’t you find it funny?”

 

“What? You and Shamal taking turns puking in the gutter?”

 

“Well. More of, our kids, coming together.”

 

They’re out on the curb now – or Iemitsu and Tsuyoshi are out on the curb and Shamal is bent over somewhere behind them, washing out his mouth. The semi-drunken brawl had, of course, inevitably ended in puking, thankfully not on each other’s clothes. Or on each other.

 

“I wouldn’t be too surprised if it was just us three,” Tsuyoshi admits sometime later, “but it isn’t.”

 

There’s a pause, short enough to mean little, long enough to be almost uncomfortable.

 

“Heard any word from her?”

 

“Nope. Must’ve died in some ditch somewhere—“

 

“And took out a whole gang or two with her,” Iemitsu finishes, with a rueful look. “You think that boy knows anything? That maybe he’s…”

 

“He’s using her tonfa. If that’s not enough, then look at his eyes. They’re hers.” Tsuyoshi scratched the back of his neck. “Can’t imagine who she might’ve fallen for. Bird like her always seemed better off free.”

 

“I guess we’ll never know.”

 

And perhaps, given the nature of the former Skylark of Namimori, the dark-haired beauty who once breathed lethality the way other people breathe air, it is somehow more appropriate that way.

 

“You talking about that bitch?” Shamal drawls as he finally came back.

 

“You mean the only woman who wasn’t interested in getting into your pants?” Iemitsu grins. “Pretty much.”

 

“I _don’t_ miss her. I _do_ miss that boxer though… nothing like a dose of stupid to make your evening every time, y’know?”

 

“He’s not so bad,” Tsuyoshi laughs. “His son takes after him. He’s a good kid.”

 

“And my boy’s future Sun Guardian, apparently.” Iemitsu runs a hand through his hair. He’s in need of a haircut, but something tells him that getting one’s just going to make the gray strands come out more. “Hibari’s little monster I can get, but I wanted to try and find someone else the moment Reborn suggested Sasagawa.”

 

“But there probably isn’t anyone better.”

 

“Yeah. I know. Guess my next paycheck’s going to another bottle from your stash… I’ll need to pour it all over the big guy’s grave. It’s the best apology I can offer.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Tsuyoshi quietly puts in, “when you go and visit. Been a while since I said hi to Natsuhi anyway.”

 

Shamal stares at both of them and groans.

 

“You idiots better not be going at the crack of dawn. You’re not dragging me outta bed THAT early.”

 

Iemitsu laughs.

 

Shamal drops Iemitsu off at the curb sometime after sunrise, because it’s better for the latter to walk to his house then risk his wife spotting the car and noting his injuries and thinking things. The blond man yawns, nearly stumbles over the step at the entrance while he’s taking off his shoes. The house is quiet, a little too quiet. He remembers, belatedly, that with the way things had turned out for the kids during the battles, his boy’s in the hospital, and his own wife might not even be at home. He’s not sure how he feels about that, he realizes, as he walks up the steps. Coming home to an empty house had probably been what her marriage to him had been all about, back in the day.

 

One flight of stairs a hallway and two doors later, Iemitsu sees her on their bed and he feels like an idiot for being a dramatic old sap. He tiptoes as best as he can on a semi-bum leg, throws off everything he’s got on but his undershirt and boxers and slips between the sheets beside her. She squirms, cracks an eye open, sighs, shuts her eye again.

 

“You stink.”

 

“I know.”

 

She turns about and nestles under his unshaven chin. He draws her close, basks in her warmth, and falls asleep to the sound of the world waking up around them.


End file.
